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“I’ve seen your art.” Crossing one leg over the other, I savor the sensation of bubbles bursting over my tongue with my next sip. “I think this is a case of the creator being unable to appreciate her work.”
Meghan rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile pulling at her pink-painted lips. “Whatever. At least I’m not like you guys having to write essays and shit, right?”
“Tell me about it.” Ana dramatically drapes one arm over the back of the sofa, then suddenly spurs into action with the makeup bag and begins applying some gold eyeliner above the black she already wears.
“I’m not looking forward to the exams, but only because of my parents.” The two people in the world who should, in theory, have my best interests at heart. Sadly, that isn’t always the case.
Meghan’s eyes soften and she settles on the edge of the table. “Are they still giving you a hard time?”
I nod. “After graduation, they expect me to get some stuffy job at a respectable publishing house or to write shitty articles for some boring old news company.” My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek. “My dad keeps saying people will always need news and someone has to write it.”
“Fuck them,” Ana says, her voice low as she concentrates. “I keep telling you, you should drop out and follow your real passion. Snap pictures of the hottest celebrities in town!”
My real passion has been photography for as long as I can remember. As soon as I was old enough to save up for a camera, I used every spare dollar in my name to buy one, much to my parent’s dismay. They see a camera and think paparazzi. I tried to tell them once that while my passion was photographing people, I had a stronger interest in boudoir shoots. My mother nearly had a heart attack.
“Maybe don’t drop out,” Meghan warns. “But you’re really talented with a camera. You should focus on that.”
“You know I couldn’t live with my parents’ disappointment,” I remind them. My fingertips tingle, though, and two minutes later, my camera is in my hand. Ana and Meghan instantly become top models under the click of my snapshots, and together, we pose with makeup, alcohol, and more. I take so many pictures that by the time the taxi arrives, the storage warning flashes up.
Doing this for a living would be amazing but it can’t be anything more than a hobby. My parents can’t even handle the streaks of color in my hair, never mind a life behind the lens.
Frankie’s usually has a guest list as long as your arm, but tonight is our lucky night, and Ana gets us in with minimal hassle. I’m not sure what she promised the bouncer as we walked by, but she had the cheekiest smirk on her face.
The club itself is as dark as the night, with hundreds of colorful spotlights raining down from above. They highlight the mass of people swaying and bouncing in time to the throbbing beat of the bass, and the crowd moves as one as the smoke machine creates the illusion that everyone is joined together.
Heat clings to every inch of my bare skin, and I’m sweating by the time we fight our way to the glass-topped bar for drinks. The music turns up, streamers and glitter explode above our heads, followed by excited screams and cries, and the night is in full swing.
All thought of exams, graduation, and the future melts away with each sharp cherry tang of my cocktail. The ice melts so quickly that the drinks flow more easily, and Meghan, Ana, and I dance like there’s no tomorrow. From singing the lyrics to recognizable songs to balancing against one another when our heels cut into our ankles, it’s the perfect night to blow off steam.
And pent-up frustration at hot, uninterested teachers.
“Emma?”
I spin around, throwing my arms up as the music surges, and come face-to-face with Mike from class. His hands land on my waist, stopping me from completing my spin and my heart lurches faintly at the contact. He’s dressed in all black and sweat darkens his brown hair.
“Mike? Hey! Having a good time?” Raising my voice to be heard over the music, I take a half-step backward, but Mike’s hands linger on my waist.
“Yeah! I was looking for you, actually.”
“Oh?” Lifting my glass to my lips, a disappointing trickle reminds me that I need a fresh cocktail.
“You wanna dance?”
“Sure. Join us!” I wave one hand back at Ana and Meghan, who are giving it their all, grinding up on each other and anyone else who comes within a foot of us. The bass thumps so profoundly that I can’t tell the difference between it and the thump of my own heart as we dance. Mike lingers close, never straying far, even as Ana darts away to collect more drinks.
“Emma.” I sway and roll with the music, then stop because Mike is suddenly in my space with his face close to mine.
“Mike?”
He blinks slowly and his lips purse just enough that my stomach drops. I may be drunk but I know exactly where this is going. His hand returns to my waist, his fingertips pressing in to encourage me closer, and his lips pucker.
“Mike.” Placing one hand on his broad chest, I gently push him backward and smile as sweetly as I can. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
“Huh?” Confusion washes over his face, and something flashes in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher. “I’m interested in you, though. You’re single, aren’t you?”
“That’s flattering.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “And I am. But I’m sorry, I’m not interested in you, in that way.”
There’s a moment, a single second when sobriety cuts through the fog of alcohol, where I fear I’ve said the wrong thing. Should I have been kinder? Rejected him after a kiss? Said no in a different way?
